Thrush Poetry Journal
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Clare Paniccia
​

I Think I Just Swiped Left on My Future Husband
 
Between images, that smile-sick biography, I conjure our progeny
 
            hatching like fish. Our son, indulgent in his milk teeth: he has
 
my lips, your septum piercing. I wonder if we will argue about
 
            baptismal fonts, the holy waters filled with carp, bluegill, bait
 
& tackle. Your brother’s brookie nets, vacation costs. Dozens
 
            of dinner plans, cancelled. Already, I can tell you will not
 
understand my tendency to break down lavishly—at our
 
            wedding, drunk on Manischewitz, I will kiss all the other
 
men out of spite. Something to do with destruction & labrusca
 
            grapes, the purple stains on your chin. Even from this distance
 
setting I am watching you & your Colt 45 wade into Little River
 
            like you own the place. Broad with your belted knife & wide
 
eyes—tell me all the small confessions you’ve whispered lately.
 
            When was the last time you phoned your mother? I am trying
 
to handle your family vision: the hunting ground, the dog,
 
            the sharp corners. What I mean is: I am building this narrative
 
flash-full of possibility so that when I leave you, you can’t say
 
            I didn’t try.




Clare Paniccia is a PhD candidate at Oklahoma State University, where she also works as an Associate Editor of the Cimarron Review. Her poetry has been featured in or is forthcoming from Ninth Letter, Mid-American Review, Indiana Review, Best New Poets, and elsewhere.





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